To Your New Era

No longer a secretive contact or informant, the Alis standing before her now was a full-blown asset of the Special Operations Corps, and another one of Elvera's many responsibilities.

The decoy apartment was once again nothing more than the imitation of a life, losing its legitimacy as a home almost as fast as it had gained it. Iris had used her ample magic to pick the place clean of anything and everything that belonged to him, and in the end, it all fit in a single box.

"It's useful, considering I've been moving around a lot," he admitted, picking it up as the bulging bottom threatened to fall out from underneath. "But the Lieutenant-General told me to break the habit. Says it's suspicious."

"Do spies have a lot of stuff?" Iris asked, standing by the door.

"Maybe. More…hobbies and friends, sometimes even partners and children."

"I can't see why she chose you then," Crestana scoffed. "Live earnestly and they'd think you're a spy even if you weren't."

"I told her I'm a fast learner," he said, shifting the box for a better grip. Iris noticed the ticket peeking out of his pocket, and her grip against the doorhandle tightened. Conversation died as the time dawned on them to head for the station. The clock ticked away their time, and Iris hoped that neither would say anything before it reached zero.

"Still, a part of me was hoping you would stay."

Iris thoughts, almost verbatim, but from a voice box of metal rather than flesh. She looked up at Crestana, suddenly as reluctant to move from her place in front of the door as Iris was.

"I hoped that…the motivation you landed on would keep you here. Forget Vesmos, do good here. That place has done you nothing, and there's always a need for people like you."

She fidgeted with her fingers. "Goodness, I should leave this for the platform, but I've already begun, so I'll say it all," she said, sighing as she steadied herself. "It was a selfish thought, I know, but I know Iris wants you here, and I've grown quite fond of you…but…"

With one final humph, she pushed herself off the doorway, as though a lock releasing its hold to let him pass.

"I'm proud of you," Crestana said. "Knowing you, this feels right."

She looked at Iris, her hands still reluctant to let go of the handle, her body to let him pass through and once again out of her life. Just like Crestana, for selfish reasons and her own personal gain, she kept him confined in his cocoon, knowing that letting him break free was the only right answer.

"Knowing you're still fighting will give me the strength to do the same, Iris. Everything besides that, letters, telephone calls, visits; they'll all come and go whenever you want."

"Whenever Marie lets you," Iris smiled. "I'll beg her to give you holidays."

She pursed her lips, feeling the unfulfilled promise alone plant a seed of hope. Things were changing; some things gained for others lost. Maybe, just maybe, knowing he was by her side half the world away would make her feel less alone once Evalyn finally hung up the hat.

Crestana grabbed her hand, refusing to let her forget about the one most insistent on filling that void.

She really was changing. The will to look him in the eyes and let him pass as an equal she couldn't shackle was already within her. It wasn't Alis's leaving that she had to come to terms with.

She finally let go of the door, and in one step tightly wrapped her arms around him as though she hadn't changed at all.

"We have a way until the station," Alis said, his box occupying both arms.

"Yeah, but I've already begun, so I might as well do it all."

"Oh, shut up," Crestana chuckled, closing in herself.

The three repeated the gesture on the platform, now in view of Elliot and a newly discharged Evalyn. With the time fast approaching the number listed on his ticket, he approached his former landlords, cardboard box still in tow.

"Thank you for everything," he said. "I owe you both a lot."

"You're a big fat zero on the rent balance, kid. Far as I'm concerned, it's all good will for my daughter's friend, all right?" Elliot said, firmly patting his shoulder; an air about the gesture Alis felt was distinctly military. He let himself believe the notion, a sign of respect from somebody like him, was a medal in and of itself.

"I would love to tell you good riddance, but I can't deny the place is cleaner now than it was when you arrived."

Evalyn held back a small smile with her teeth, looking him up and down before she stepped closer, the movements around her abdomen still stiff as a board. Avoiding the box, she embraced him, pulling his head close to her chest.

Stolen novel; please report.

"Stay alive no matter what. Else I won't forgive you, all right?" she whispered. He couldn't see her face, but knew instinctively where her eyes pointed.

"I won't, ma'am. I'm no use dead," he said, the threat shocking the formality back into his words, but that made them no less sincere.

He had a purpose to fulfil, or at least embody until his lofty goals came into reach. Until then, he would move with restraint, assess risk, second-guess reward. Until then, and beyond, he would come back alive.

"Good man," she said, letting him go and releasing her smile for him to enjoy as another medal pinned to his chest. "You'll always have a home here."

He turned back to the two by the platform, a million words for both.

"I know we got off to the wrong start, Crestana—"

"My goodness shut up," she snapped, shooing his words away. "I've said my peace all right? Your melodrama is going to make you stick out like a sore thumb."

He could tell she didn't mean it by the shape of her shutters, those remarkably expressive sheets of metal. He had words to say himself but heeded her advice anyway, quite fond of the idea that a Spirit would prefer to use fewer words, lest something got lost in translation.

Experiences spoke for themselves, fiery exchanges filled in for the rest. Alis knew little about the inner workings of people and Spirits, but he could confidently say he had taken steps in the right direction with her.

The same could be said for Iris, but perhaps to a different level.

A friendship that fell apart the moment he tried to define it, one that would be so illogical to anybody outside their world that it needed an entirely new language to express.

But none of it was needed. Iris had never worked off the same principles a dictionary did. Defining things wasn't her forte.

Things just were, and Alis preferred it that way, because that's all they needed to be.

"I'll see you again soon," he said, committing her face to memory, hoping she wasn't too far changed by the time he saw her again.

"Promise." It wasn't a question.

"I promise," he said without question.

His carriage awaited him, so he picked up his cardboard box and boarded, leaving the conductor to pluck the ticket out of his pocket, stamp it, and return it. With a delicate, metallic click, his several-day journey began.

But in the fleeting final moments, where he returned waves through the window as the train car left the station, he hoped that his mind might play tricks on him, conjure a Moira standing in the crowd, sending him off.

His mind was too rational, too logical to find happiness in seeing her face one last time. He wasn't emotional enough, selfish enough to feel regret or remorse at the words 'for the best'. But he would need to one day. It was his job now.

Winter. The end of another calendar year fast approached as the sky seemed to shed and fall in flecks of snow, renewing itself for the coming spring. Marie didn't relish the cold as she once did, never seeming to find enough layers to wrap around herself as the steel walls of her office sapped her of warmth, even as the heaters blasted hot air up her pant legs and sleeves.

It wasn't any surprise to her staffers that her leave days coalesced during one quarter of the year, but she had a feeling they didn't judge her for it in the slightest as they themselves shivered.

Marie's steel-capped heals cracked the wafer-thin layer of ice coating the sidewalk and crunched the further she climbed the hill to her apartment. Her foremost worry was mould, her second her supply of whiskey, only then did the work in her shoulder bag warrant any concern. She shivered again, fingertips shaking at the thought of having to sign papers gloveless.

Her footsteps slowed as the hill's apex came into view. She turned regarding the view of the city as her street sloped into the maze of snow-capped buildings, her tram now but a speck braving the many winding paths. Beautiful by all means, absolutely breathtaking, with a heater running and a mouthful of whiskey down her throat. The thought spurred her on, and she dipped into the cover of her building's lobby.

A cagey metal elevator wouldn't do her body temperature any favours, so she opted for some exercise up the stairs instead, and soon the sound of her boots against the concrete fell into a rhythm. Step by monotonous step, surrounded by blank brick walls, knowing that the view when she emerged from them would be its own small reward.

By the time she reached her landing, her attention was burrowing deep into her shoulder-bag with her hand, fishing around for keys that always seemed to sift down to the bottom through documents, gloves and loose stationery. Scraping the base with her fingers, almost elbow deep, their tips felt the cold, jagged edges of a set of keys, and she hoisted them out, her eyes finally escaping the bag as she did so.

The view they came to was unexpected.

A silhouette clad in black, standing outside her door like a stray cat, bottle in hand as though nothing had changed. His face was barely worn, no new lines outlined the bags under his brow, but the moment his eyes caught hers, the creases around his smile made him look ten years younger.

"Care for a glass?"

"Oh my god."

Her walk broke into a run as she tried to cross the distance between them despite her frozen knees and stiff shoes, as though she were catching the coattails of a spectre before they disappeared forever.

It was out of character; the thought of it was borderline uncomfortable, but the occasion warranted the action tenfold, a hundred-fold even.

Marie rammed into Colte, snaring his waist and refusing to let him move another step. There he stayed, frozen, with one hand in the air, still offering her the unopened bottle of whiskey.

"It's not that special of a bottle."

"Six months, Liam. You don't go that long without saying something."

She felt the sleeves of his rough coat drag against hers as he wrapped his arms around her.

"Sorry," he said. "I wouldn't leave you alone without good reason, you know that?"

He knew just as well as her that half the crowd didn't just mean double the loneliness. The equation was exponential, and only increased as the numbers dwindled, as memories faded. It was a pain she never wanted to feel, a pain she had considered for weeks on end.

"I know," Marie said, voice already weak. "It had better be worth it."

"It is," he said. "But I can't tell you everything out here, hm? What do you think the drink is for?"

With still a hint of reluctance, she let him go, but not quite off the hook.

"Go sleep on Evalyn's couch if you want the sympathy," she said, asserting herself with folded arms and straight shoulders. "If you want to stay here, at least give me a summary."

Colte chuckled, rolled his eyes, and came around to a sigh, probably unable to gauge how serious she was. Ever dense, he was, but thanks to it and his wholehearted sincerity, Marie found herself scoring him a couch to snore on that night all too swiftly.

"That 'group'…Trysha mentioned? Group isn't the right word…network…they've got a worldview, to say the least. And Iris is at it's centre."